


Venus Transiens

by Anastasia_G



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, Femslash, Merlin - Freeform, Mithian - Freeform, Morgana - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anastasia_G/pseuds/Anastasia_G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU fic. When a mysterious Knight defeats Prince Arthur at a tournament, the courtiers are appalled to discover it is Lady Morgana herself. But Mithian, princess of Nemeth, has a different reaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Slot-Shot to Respect

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first femslash fic so please be gentle, but honest, in your criticisms! Feedback is needed and appreciated. More chapters soon ^ - ^ Thank you to my lovely beta gnimaerd!

Mithian hated tournaments.  
  
Since she was old enough to sit up, the princess of Nemeth was expected to attend each tournament in her royal regalia, surrounded by her maids beneath a flowery dais, offering tokens to the Knights who asked. She would much rather be in a summer dress and boots, galloping the hillsides of Nemeth on her favorite mare with her bloodhound Brie at her side, outpacing her cousins and even many of her father’s Knights.  
  
The midsummer heat was stifling, and she shifted uncomfortably in the frothy blue-silk gown her mother had insisted on. A gold circlet dug its tiny teeth into her chestnut hair, squeezing to a point at her forehead.  
  
Another Knight was flung to the ground, the sword falling helpless from a bloodied hand. The prince of Camelot faced the roaring crowd, all unblemished armor and sunlit hair, and King Uther Pendragon nodded slow approval.  
  
She was bored.  
  
Picking absently at the embroidered roses on her skirt, she wondered if she dared stage a swooning spell to be excused. After all, King Uther’s ward Morgana had stayed in Camelot due to illness, so why shouldn’t  _she_ be allowed to escape?  
  
A sudden hush had taken the crowd and she squinted up. A nameless Knight was walking across the field, bearing no sigil, armored plainly in mailshirt and helm.  
  
The gauntlet was thrown, the challenge accepted. Prince Arthur bowed to the crowd and a noblewoman’s hankerchief fluttered to his feet.  
  
Mithian rolled her eyes.  
  
“Would you do me the honor, milady?”   
  
The mystery Knight stood before her, hand outstretched. Startled, Mithian blinked for a few moments before regaining her composure.  
  
“Of course,” she fumbled at her sleeve and drew out a ribbon. Cool green eyes appraised her.  
  
“If you would,” the Knight leaned closer, and Mithian started to tie on the token, but the ribbon slipped from her sweaty fingers to slide along his arm. A slim gloved hand closed over it, tucking it beneath the mail-shirt in an intimacy that startled her, and she saw amusement glittering in those eyes.  
  
Something between irritation and excitement fluttered low in her belly.  
  
At first it seemed the match would be short work for the prince. He stood a head taller and much broader in the shoulder than the Knight, and his greatsword was new-forged steel. But the Knight proved quick and nimble on his feet, dodging the prince’s blows easily and darting around him like a fish.  
  
The clang of swords meeting was a sharp music and dust smoked around their boots as the agile Knight defended and parried each blow.  
  
 _It’s almost like he’s studied the Prince’s every move._  
  
Mithian had never seen a Knight move with such swift grace. It was almost poetic. She found herself impatient for the fight to end.  
  
 _I want to see what he looks like._  
  
It happened so quickly that the crowd was stunned into silence. The Knight saw an opening and attacked quick as a swooping falcon. The slot-shot was clean and precise, and he used his lithe form to his advantage, ducking beneath the Prince to upend him with the rough wooden shield.  
  
“Yield.” His swordpoint hovered over the Prince’s chin. Uther nearly upset his chair standing up.  
  
“Show yourself!” he barked.  
  
The Knight stood unmoving, until the Prince raised his hands and muttered “yield”.  
  
“Who are you?” King Roland, her own father, demanded.  
  
The Knight extended a hand and helped the prince to his feet with a curt nod. Then he walked to the royal dais and pushed his helmet off to release a long raven braid of hair.  
  
The face beneath was clear-cut and beautiful, green eyes blazing challenge, mouth smouldering defiance.  
  
“Morgana...!” Uther’s voice was swallowed in the sudden hum that went up.  
  
Mithian blinked in disbelief.  
  
“Guards! Remove her from the field.”  
  
But the lady would not be so easily dismissed. She swung her blade around and met the two guards head on. She disarmed the first easily. The second was dispatched with a swift kick and a blow from the sword pommel in a sickening crunch across the bridge of his nose.  
  
The prince gaped from the middle of the field, and Uther was white with rage. “Morgana, you will stop this instant. Leave the field now, I command it!”  
  
Morgana raised her head. A smear of blood marked her fine cheek, and Mithian had the strangest urge to wipe it away.   
  
“You do not dismiss me,  sire. ,” she sheathed her sword smoothly, “I leave this field of my own accord.  And on my terms ,” she jerked her chin at the field where she had defeated his son but moments ago.  
“Remember that.”  
  
The two guards were crawling to their feet. Morgana retrieved the ribbon from beneath her shirt, then wiped her cheek with a smirk.   
  
She felt a bead of gathered sweat trickling between her breasts.  
  
Morgana sauntered over, throwing one last defiant glare at Uther before pressing a kiss to the ribbon. A careless smirk curved that perfect upper lip.  
  
“Well met, milady.”  
  



	2. The Witch and the Huntress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the gorgeous fanart "The Maiden's Tryst" by my amazing Tumblr friend myrddinwylt on which this chapter is based.
> 
> http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m7dxxbqpSR1rvl8pxo1_400.jpg
> 
> Also thanks to my fab beta gnimaerd and all the Tumblr crew who supported and rooted for this fic.

The Midsummer Hunt was an ancient and revered tradition amongst Camelot’s nobility, and Mithian was delighted to take part. Mounted on her mare with the crossbow bouncing at her hip, she felt at ease in her skin in a way that eluded her during more princess-like activities.

Dusk-shadows bathed the forest in secret blue, mingling with the distant whiff of bonfires, and the moon was golden.

Her cousin Philip reined up beside her, “I see your father is still indulging your improper penchant for hunting.”

“I see you’re still an insufferable oaf.”

She had never been overly fond of Philip, but lately his constant comments about marriage and womanliness were needling her more than usual.

He frowned, “It’s ill fitting that our princess should ride out with the men,” then lowered his voice, “Would you like to be called a unwomanly, and a witch?”

“No,” she drew up her reins, “I’d like to be called a woman who could best men at their own sport.”

She kicked off without waiting for his response. The tale of Prince Arthur’s defeat at Lady Morgana’s hands had spread quickly, sowing whispers of witchcraft that were unabated a year later. Only fear of Uther’s power kept men like Philip from doing so outright, but Mithian knew the names they reserved for the lady in private.

Brie loped beside her horse, then gave a short bark and took off in an excited spring.  
Mithian galloped behind her, letting the rush of wind and speed scatter her anger. It would irk cousin Philip no small amount if she was first at the kill, again.

She didn’t know why discussions of the lady Morgana rankled her so, or why the memory of indolent green eyes brought a flush to her cheek.

Mithian urged her mare expertly through the thick undergrowth, dodging root and rock with ease. Her lucky token would win out, she could feel it.

Brie paced restlessly by a small brook and she dismounted, crossbow at the ready. This close to the fox, it was sometimes easier to approach on foot.

“Good girl,” she murmured while the hound lavished her hand with affection. They picked their way across the shallow, pebbly water and she crouched behind a tree. She could hear a distinct rustling in the undergrowth ahead, and her lips curved in triumph.

 

_You’ll owe me a new horse Philip_

 

With the practiced ease of many hunts, Mithian crept along the trees. The blood pounding through her veins was sweeter than wine.

She thrust herself forward, crossbow poised. A fox crouched beside the bushes, a beautiful copper-pelted thing with a streak of silver down its back. And stroking the velvet ears, her mail-shirt glistening, was the Lady Morgana.

Mithian lowered her weapon, “You,” she managed softly.

“Were you expecting someone else, milady?”

The other woman stood, her lithe form unfurling easily in close-fitted black trousers and boots. A silver corslet cinched her waist so she was all sharp grace and clear lines, like a new-forged blade. Only her white neck, exposed by the neatly upswept hair, appeared soft and vulnerable.

The fox darted away and Brie shot after, but for once Mithian paid no mind. She was transfixed by a hundred unspoken words, by the memory of a hot summer afternoon and sweat beading between her breasts. She fumbled for words.

“You were very brave at that tournament.”

Morgana gave a short, sharp laugh, “Bravery had nothing to do with it.”

“Why did you do it then?”

The lady raised an eyebrow, “Fight the prince? or ask for your token?”

“Yes,...everything, all of it.” Wind rustled through the trees, bearing the faint sound of hunting bugles.

Morgana’s green eyes narrowed, but a playful smirk twisted her lips, “I did it because I could.” She closed the distance between them and Mithian felt the same odd flutter low in her belly.

“Don’t you ever want to?” Morgana traced a single finger down her cheek, and she swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat. “I know you do. I saw it in your face that day, forced to sit pretty and watch grown men play at war. I felt your impatience, so much like mine.”

A long finger slid under her chin, and Mithian was compelled to gaze into those ice-green eyes. Except there was no trace of ice in them now. Rather they glowed like rain-moist leaves. Her own breath came quicker. She reached a slow hand and touched the smooth porcelain cheek, tracing the memory of a bloodstain.  
“I didn’t think you were real,” Mithian whispered. She half expected the other woman to vanish like dust, but Morgana made no effort to move and her skin was warm and soft to the touch.

“What are you doing in the woods?” she asked, wetting her lips and unwittingly drawing that green-eyed gaze.

“Something I want.” And she felt the rough tree bark against her back before Morgana’s lips claimed hers, swiftly and with consummate ease. Her shock dissolved beneath the soft entreaty of the other woman’s mouth and her own responsive desire. Morgana kissed very much like she fought, effortlessly and with teasing skill. When their tongues touched she grew light-headed, senses drowsing from Morgana’s taste and scent: cool mint and honey and the sharp golden moonlight. Flavors of conquest.

The crossbow slid from her fingers and she gasped when Morgana’s hands travelled beneath her skirt.

 

_What am I doing._

 

The leather gloves ghosted light kisses on the sensitive skin of her thighs, making her shiver. She felt the lazy strokes stop when they reached her upper thigh and Morgana drew back in slight surprise. Her eyes were dark-jade and those indolent lips were slightly swollen. She caressed the ribbon knotted tight around soft flesh, then pulled it loose , drawing it slowly down her leg in a silken lick.

Mithian sighed.

But now the distant barking of hounds drew nearer, followed by the shouts of men and the thud of horses.

Morgana ran a slow hand down her cheek, then tucked the ribbon back under her shirt. Her smile was without arrogance this time, brief and wistful.

“Until next time, my huntress.”

And melted into the shadows like a dream that leaves nothing but the empty ache of sweetness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments if you can! This was a tough chapter to write because I wanted to balance out the erotic elements with more contemplative ones without weighing down the narrative. The next chapter will be longer and somewhat more introspective on Mithian's part.  
> Hope this was enjoyable! xoxox

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this was short, I think this fic will be three chapters in all, but the subsequent ones will be longer I promise! Please let me know what you think xoxoxo


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